The past really fucks with me. It causes the emotions. It makes me want to be left alone with the understanding that this is no time to ask what’s wrong, then I need that someone I care about to disrobe and sleep, and wait for me to come back with the emotions in my chest and in my hands so that I may press against to hold and feel and be a tangible anchor—a warm and safe haven—and fall asleep, and prepare for possibly a short talk, more than likely appreciative kisses and rough emotional sex, and poetic statements of affection.